Undefined
by Aviaries
Summary: Phoebe feels insecure about a lot of things. However, when it comes to Monty, she feels downright inadequate. Something about her, the way she acts, the way he acts, the way Sibella just seems to know him better. And finally, she understands. Monty understands. And they both come to a conclusion. Phoebe cannot be defined.


Phoebe looked over her dress.

She fluffed it; she flattened it.

It didn't feel right.

The gown was a periwinkle color, with white lace and pearl accents that were arranged to look like flowers cascading down the bodice and skirt. The waist was cinched, as it would be with a corset and laces.

The problem?

Sibella said it was supposed to be _sexy. Sexy._ But Phoebe didn't feel sexy. She felt plain. _Sibella_ was sexy. She was confident and appealing to everyone, with long blonde hair and deep blue eyes and she looked good in everything she picked out.

Probably because she only picked out things she knew she would look good in.

Still, Phoebe wasn't sure about this dress. There was a certain lace flower just where her arm came through her left sleeve, and it kept scratching her skin a little. _Lace was supposed to be soft,_ she noted.

"Phoebe?"

Monty poked his head through the door. He was dressed in a black suit and a paisley red waistcoat.

Something that matched _Sibella._

Monty would alternate.

This was a tradition. Monty would take Phoebe and Sibella out to dinner, under the pretense that Sibella was Phoebe's friend, which _was_ true. Lionel never seemed to say anything about it. Which was suspicious, at least to Monty. Actually, to all of them, but Monty the most.

Anyways, Phoebe took one last glimpse at her dress and turned. Something in Monty lit up, and he walked in. "You're stunning," he told her, "an absolute marvel."

Phoebe nodded with some feigned delight. Her face felt flat and plain, even though she had an incredible widow's peak which everyone said was a great sign of wisdom. And even with the make-up that she wore, eyeshadow of varied shade of purple, a natural-colored lipstick, her face felt like it was too… too… boring.

And then there was Monty who stared at her like she was the sun. And Phoebe felt like that should be reassuring, and his look of concern after she didn't say anything made her guilty for worrying him. And then… Sibella walked in.

"Monty, darling," she said with a sway in her voice. Seductive, Phoebe noted. "Oh, what's wrong?"

Monty had turned back to Phoebe, and Phoebe saw that his expression hadn't changed from his worriedness.

"It's nothing, Sibella," Phoebe said quickly, plastering on a convincing smile. "I was just too astounded by Monty's looks to speak."

This seemed to satisfy Monty, and Sibella laughed.

Of course she laughed. Because Sibella looked at Monty like _he_ was the sun. And that was the problem. There was probably more love between Sibella and Monty than Sibella and Phoebe. And that was because… because… because… Phoebe didn't want to think about why. Because then she would feel inadequate. _Not good enough._

"You look troubled," Sibella said suddenly.

Phoebe looked up, realizing that there was a single tear down her cheek. "Monty, why don't you go with Sibella tonight. Say that I'm indisposed." And at the look of surprise and disappointment that resulted from Monty, Phoebe added, "please."

Sibella seemed to be both delighted and confused. "But why?" The way she said it sounded more like she didn't want Phoebe to change her mind.

And Phoebe wouldn't.

When Phoebe was alone for the night, she wandered into the study and lit the fireplace.

This was her safe place. Even more so than her own room. And in it, she found what she called infinite information.

Phoebe sat at the desk and pulled close to her the closest book within reach.

A dictionary.

Monty had been trying to prove to Sibella that unpossible was a word, which it was not.

Phoebe rarely read actual dictionaries. Actually, she read encyclopedias. She liked learning about people she'd never meet, and places she'd never been, and concepts she'd never discover on her own.

She started with the _a_ 's.

Phoebe read each entry carefully, taking special note of _all_ and _altruistic._ And then something popped out at her.

Phoebe hadn't even known that it was a word, but suddenly everything made a little sense to her. And then she felt bad about herself. Infinitely bad. Like she was inadequate all over again.

But it wasn't _her_ fault that she didn't want to… that Sibella did. Phoebe wanted to retire, and so she did. She wrapped her shawl around her night gown and turned the lights down in the room.

Monty and Sibella came home around 10:30.

Which was a little later than normal. When Phoebe and Sibella went out with Monty, usually they came home right away. It was because Phoebe hated being out with lots of people. Growing up on an estate without much human interaction besides Henry had been a little difficult for Phoebe's social skills. And that was another way that Sibella and Phoebe were different. Sibella was able to talk to people, and persuade them with her voice to give her favors or discounts. Phoebe, despite being famous as the wife of an earl and having a great deal of grace, tried not to acquire favors or special deals.

When they came into the hall, they found every light off. The light to Phoebe's room was on, but her door was shut tight. Monty knocked, but Phoebe didn't answer.

Sibella frowned. "I hope she's okay," she said, feeling a little bad for being so eagar to have Monty to herself.

"Sibella, you should go home," he told her. "Lionel will worry."

"He won't worry," she assured him with a bitter tone.

"You understand what I meant."

"Give Phoebe my best," she said, refastening her coat and heading for the door. A motor car, driven by Highhurst manor staff, was waiting for her.

When the door closed behind her, Monty knocked again, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"Phoebe?"

Phoebe didn't answer. She was lying in bed, trying to shut everything out. She just felt a little worthless. Like she wasn't enough at all.

Eventually, Monty gave up and walked the dark hallway back to his own room.

That was another thing. They had separate rooms, which they usually kept to at night. Monty often wrote into the night, which could keep Phoebe awake.

The next morning, Monty greeted Phoebe sunnily.

"You're looking better," he told her.

She didn't feel like she did. Her long brown hair was braided, flowers sticking out of the strands.

The flowers were to hide Phoebe's disappointment.

The rest of the day went on like that.

Phoebe and Monty sat in silence in the study, at meals, just every time they were together. And finally, Monty was so worried that he pulled her aside before she could turn in for the night.

"Phoebe," he said with a frown, "you're upset. What's bothering you?"  
Phoebe shrugged, which was a very unlike-Phoebe gesture. Monty raised an eyebrow.

"I'm fine, Monty," she insisted, to which Monty put a hand on hers and told her, "you're not. You're not fine. You're upset. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's nothing for _you_ to worry about. I wish you would stop worrying at all."

And then the look on Monty's face broke Phoebe's heart. She gave in slowly, her walls, which were not very fortified to begin with, crumbled slowly.

"Alright, alright. I- I was reading."

"That's not very different."

"Well, it wasn't that. It was _what_ I was reading."

"Well… what were you reading?"  
Phoebe looked at him with a sheepish smile. "The dictionary."

"The dictionary?"

"Yes. And I found a word."

Monty waited for her to continue.

"Are you upset when we don't make love?"

The question was abrupt, and Monty didn't know what to say. "No," he told her. "You say that you don't enjoy it, and that's fine."

"But Sibella and you… I presume you…"

"Yes." There was no denying it. They did. They still do.

"Do you like Sibella better for it?"

"No." The answer was immediate.

"But you like her better."

"Phoebe, Sibella has known me longer. We were together for years. She taught me to skate, and to bargain, and to shop for gifts for women. Truly, it's not a matter of _liking_ her better."

"It feels like it. I just… I knew… I just didn't want to think that I wasn't enough for you. You're so good. You're such a good man. And I'm just plain. Behind my wealth and my poise, I'm really very dull. I don't have much of an outgoing personality, and I'm always quiet, and I didn't think you'd like me because I'm such a contrast from Sibella. When you told me, in prison, that you loved her, I knew that I was different. And when I went to her house, she was cold to me. I'm glad we've sorted it out, but Monty darling, I'm not Sibella. I'm Phoebe, and I'm-"

"You're my wife. I love you no matter what. There's nothing wrong with you. You're just who you are."

Phoebe nodded, not noticing that she had been crying. She didn't cry with great gasping, or shortness of breath. She cried in, true to her nature, a very calm way. With light tears streaming.

Monty kissed her forehead, and her hand, and she cheered. She kissed his cheek, because the lips felt to personal. He left her to change into her night dress, looking in the study for what brought on such a bought of doubt for his love. And in the study, true enough, was the dictionary, open to a page. And with a tear stain next to it: _asexuality._ With a rude definition because it was 1910. Bah.

Monty crossed it out in ink and wrote a note beside it.

 _Asexuality. A valid state of being. Phoebe Navarro is this. Phoebe Navarro, who is perfect._


End file.
